


Parallel

by Volts



Series: Destiny's Children [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Dara's parents), Adoption, Found Family, Gen, Minor Character Death, Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Part-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26586892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/pseuds/Volts
Summary: Destiny rippled as the Lion Cub of Cintra ran into Geralt of Rivia’s arms.Something was missing. On the edges of Brokilon forest a young elf, of similar age to the Princess, shivered alone.Destiny cast her net wider and found a bard contemplating a crossroad. Left or Right. Destiny nudged him left, the ripples of her actions shimmering across the continent.All will be well now.~Dara had never considered a bardic career but when a brightly coloured bard crashes into his life he might gain more than learning how to play the lute.He might gain a family in the process.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Dara (The Witcher)
Series: Destiny's Children [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933993
Comments: 42
Kudos: 249





	Parallel

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a tumblr post by @bi-jaskier and @oniongrass which can be found here: https://oniongrass.tumblr.com/post/627257903928295424/bi-jaskier-the-witcher-1x06-rare 
> 
> It’s a fic where Jaskier adopts Dara after Dara and Ciri part ways. I can’t promise Jaskier is a *good* dad here, he’s basically winging it. What are 13 year olds allowed to do anyway?

Destiny rippled as the Lion Cub of Cintra ran into Geralt of Rivia’s arms.

Something was missing. On the edges of Brokilon forest a young elf, of similar age to the Princess, shivered alone.

Destiny cast her net wider and found a bard contemplating a crossroad. Left or Right. Destiny nudged him left, the ripples of her actions shimmering across the continent.

All will be well now.

~

Dara trudged through the frosty bracken. He’d left Fiona, _Ciri,_ to find her own way. It left a bad taste in his mouth. She may be the kin of – she may be _Cintran Royalty_ but, well, _she_ hadn’t actually hurt anyone.

(The thought of that _thing,_ the not-Mousesack, burning under the knife was seared to the inside of his eyelids).

She was just a kid. Well, so was he but he hadn’t grown up eating caviar and wearing fancy silks.

He’d grown up. Moving from temporary ghetto to abandoned squats as Calanthe increased her pogroms. Sometimes they’d had to set up camp in woods and free areas.

He could barely remember his own mother. She’d been killed in Filavandrel’s uprising. She used to hold him close, let him stand on her feet and dance him around the room laughing all the way.

(She’d picked him up, handed him to someone – he couldn’t remember who – and told them to run).

He could just remember the last look on her face. Her last kiss on his temple.

Whilst _she_ had been living off their blood.

Dara kicked a tree root he almost tripped over, then looked around apprehensively – he wasn’t so far from Brokilon.

He could go back there.

There was the sound of fast running footsteps and crunching winter fallen leaves. There were vague shouts.

“A fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck,” a brightly coloured figure crashed onto Dara’s path, swearing under his breath.

“Wha-?” Dara started only to be shushed.

He’s glad now he replaced his hat.

Dara hears the tread of Nilfgaardian boots over the tree line.

They both freeze.

The boots pass.

The man, the human, sags slightly, bending to rest his hands on his knees.

“Phew,” he said, “Tha-that was close.”

“Ar-are they after _you?”_ Dara asked, stepping back slightly. He doesn’t _look_ dangerous. He’s got messy brown hair, flopping over his forehead, with blue eyes.

“A friend of mine, actually,” the man said, obviously trying to rid himself of a stitch in his side without dislodging the lute case and travelling pack on his back.

His eyes narrowed on Dara, “You’re a little young to be travelling alone?”

No he wasn’t, he was about to say, but the man carried on –

“- though I suppose that is an incredibly insensitive question, what with -” he gestured at the retreating troops, “- I was accompanying a troupe of musicians to Temeria but when Cintra … well, I though I’d see what could be done. Only then I was approached by a _charming_ gentleman in Nilfgaardian colours which devolved into making myself rather scarce.”

“You talk too much,” this human seemed harmless. Probably had a dagger in his boot but otherwise looked like he was built for short sprints rather than fighting.

“Do I?” he didn’t seem surprised by this information, “I suppose I do,” he mused, a little melancholy, his eyes far away.

Dara expected that to be the end of it but, the talking continued:

“The great bard Jaskier, at your service,” and he gave a small bow.

Dara supressed a wince of disgust. He knew this type of man. It was fashionable amongst human Society to have elven artwork, elven weaponry on their walls, and elven inspired clothing. And naming their children with elven words. But no actual elves in their courts, the elves dead or shoved to one side. Mocked at killed for their culture.

 _Buttercup_. Dara scoffed and starting walking, but –

There was a tug in his navel. A nudge which said he should stay.

 _Jaskier_ was looking up at the darkening sky through the tree canopy. Probably trying to find north. His clothes would probably be ruined if it started to rain. Either the silk would shrink or the dye would run.

“I think we ought to make camp. Away from the tree line obviously. Do you have food? I have about 3 days of biscuits and some jerky that I’m more than happy to share. Two’s better tha-than one and all that. And after that I’ll escort you to your destination. Bard’s honour.”

He was smiling, brightly expectant, at Dara.

Dara didn’t want to feel alone tonight, not after he felt so rotten abandoning Ciri.

They found a campsite a little way away, sheltered by the roots of an upended tree. They’d lit a fire – well Dara had lit it, Jaskier bowing to his superior expertise.

Dara had heard the name Jaskier before, he was the bard who’d written the Toss-a-Coin song. Who’d told the story of a Elven massacre, simultaneously increasing Elven hatred and love for Witchers whilst allowing Filavandrel to escape. Escape to die.

After they’ve eaten Jaskier’s jerky and a bit of biscuit, the bard gets out his lute. It has Elven markings on the front which intrigues Dara. He has a dozen questions but none of which he wants to ask right now.

The bard doesn’t play, perhaps sensible to their closeness to the Nilfgaardian troops, just tightening a few pegs before resetting it it’s case and settling down on his bedroll, lute practically cuddled to his chest. He gives Dara his furlined cloak to lie on. It looks good from the outside but had been patched in places, Dara can see evidence of careful sewing. It’s warm though, which is the only reason Dara accepts the loan.

“Goodnight,” Jaskier says into the pitch black of the night.

Dara wishes him a goodnight in return, turning his back on the bard. He falls into an uneasy but thankfully unbroken sleep.

~

The next morning, they awake groggily. By an unspoken agreement they begin travelling towards Temeria together. When they reach the main road, Dara has half a mind to stick to the treeline, but the bard walks confidently on the wheel rutted track.

Dara double checks his hat is still covering his ears.

“You have no need to hide them from me,” Jaskier says, tapping the tips of his own, rounded, ears, “but I understand your discretion.”

He’s pulled out his lute and is idly playing a melody, “Are heading anywhere in particular? I was going to Redania through Temeria, to Oxenfurt. I lecture there.”

Dara shrugged, unwilling to admit he had no destination. The lute kept drawing his gaze.

“Do you play?” Jaskier said, mistaking his interest.

“No.”

“Would you like to learn? I’ll teach you,” he stops suddenly as if struck by lightning, or rather an excellent idea, “You could be my apprentice. I could teach you all I know.”

“I don’t know …” he’s never thought of any sort of career before. He’s worked on farms as an extra hand bringing in the harvest or as a street sweeper. Not many people in Cintra wanted to employ an elf. He’d heard it was better in Northern countries such as Redania.

“It would be no trouble. My life is somewhat in flux, right now, directionless. My muse has, well, hopefully he’s accepting his responsibilities. And, well, no offence meant, but you seem like a young man who lacks a drive in life. It doesn’t have to be forever -”

“That’s an elven lute,” Dara interrupted.

“… gifted by Filavandrel after my first true adventure. No doubt you’ve heard of it?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier ‘hms’ as if he knows how divisive the song is.

“We can start this evening, if you like?”

And Dara finds himself agreeing.

~

That night Dara catches a squirrel with his traps and Jaskier, surprisingly, is able to prepare it for cooking.

Reluctantly Dara eats the larger portion at Jaskier’s insistence. The bard talks through the meal, without actually talking with his mouthful, so even though Dara has more to eat he still finishes first.

“ – the trees, you see? I _had_ heard that moss only grows on the northern side of trees but considering I spent 3 days walking in circles I suspect that bast-that _blaggard_ was lying. Well, his rooms were overpriced, and his ale was – well I wouldn’t recommend going back there. His stables were shit too, oh shoot -”

After dinner, Jaskier bids Dara sit next to him and shows him how to hold the lute and the names of all the parts. Dara hadn’t quite realised how many strings it had.

It’s quite soothing. And he gets a sense of accomplishment in his chest when he, badly, manages to copy a chord. The proud grin Jaskier gives him fills a well, Dara didn’t know he had, in his chest.

After a few days of travelling, each night Jaskier gets Dara to copy more chords on the lute and during the day lectures him on rhetoric and meter, they reach a town and Jaskier applies to the tavern for a performance.

“Dear sir,” Jaskier says to the tavern keeper, “I am but a humble bard with my bread to make. I would be willing to play for your … crowd this evening in exchange for a warm room and supper for myself and my comp – apprentice.” He sounds like he’s following a recently altered script, stumbling slightly.

The tavern keeper, a balding man in his 50’s, looks upon them, unimpressed, “No rooms left.”

“Dear sir-”

“And we’ve got refugees all over. If you can pay, _pay.”_

Eventually Jaskier strikes a deal, there’s no money exchanged but a bowl of hot soup and a place to sleep above the stable is promised for a night of performing.

Jaskier gestures to a small table near a gap. “Well I guess this is lesson one in the art of bardic performance. Now, you sit here and pay attention. Uh, don’t talk to strangers?” he instructs unsurely.

Dara sits quietly in the corner, wrapping Jaskier’s cloak around him tightly. The place is packed with both regulars and refugees. He looks away from them, remembering the burning camp Ciri had fled from. All those people dead. They hadn’t been _nice_ but it had still be horrific.

Is he supposed to take notes? He doesn’t have a quill or paper in any event.

Jaskier stands in the gap and draws the audience in. He, with more sense than Dara credited him with, does not introduce himself. They may be off the beaten track here just over the Temerian border, but scouts might still be around.

The crowd is subdued. Jaskier plays a series of sombre but hopeful ballads and sea shanties, simultaneously not disturbing the mood but also lifting it slightly. Some of the crowd even sway along.

Most of the crowd have gone to bed when Jaskier’s set is over.

“Tough crowd,” he comments when he’s packed up his lute and collected his, very small, tip.

“They’ve lost their families,” Dara says, slightly defensive.

To his surprise Jaskier just nods sombrely. Then he brightens, “And what have we learnt, student mine?”

Dara shrugs, not willing to commit to any of his ideas. He thought it was good that Jaskier hadn’t tried to play anything too cheerful, it had been out of place, and he’d stuck to songs most people would know.

“Well. Tone. Tone is an important part of any performance. If I’d gone in happy, too enthusiastic, half of the audience would have shouted me off the stage. True I may have raised some spirits but it would have been disrespectful.”

They collect their soup bowls from the counter and settle back down at Dara’s table. Jaskier talks his way through the important features of appearance, demeanour, and moves his way through imagery and metaphor. Dara listens, interested. He had no idea so much thought went into it, how each word was chosen carefully to get the right reaction from the listeners.

By the time they are settled onto their floor above the stable, which stinks of horse but is beautifully warm, Dara feels full and strangely contented.

He drifts off to Jaskier snoring.

~

A few weeks later they are in Temeria proper, Maribor in the horizon. Dara feels a pit in his stomach. Maribor means humans.

He’s grown used to Jaskier over the last month or so but others…

It also means shopping. Jaskier insists on buying Dara a proper bedroll and pack. He also clumsily tactful, suggests Dara may need more clothes, “Clothes to suit his new profession.”

Dara refuses to go in the tailors shop himself – concerned the tailor will try and remove his hat – and he expects Jaskier to command, hands on hips and angry. All Jaskier does is stare at him a few moments, walk around him twice, clasp him on the shoulders, and toss him coin to haggle for a new ink pot and notebook from the market place.

(Dara buys the inkpot and notebook, picks up their laundry, and marvels at the city so different from Cintra. Probably still built on blood but somehow this feels like astep towards something new).

A few days later Dara realises, as he stands in their small Inn room (it’s Jaskier’s turn on the floor tonight) wearing almost fitting new trousers-and-doublet in an almost blue-slate grey, Jaskier was measuring him up. The new notebook and ink pot were for Dara too – he’s quite glad he haggled it down so cheaply – he finds out when he tries to put them on Jaskier’s pack.

At Dara’s, no doubt dumbfounded, expression, Jaskier asks, “You do know your letters? If not I can teach you, a-and it’s not essential, I just know I compose better when I’ve written it down bu-”

Dara, mindful of his finery - “Actually it’s a reasonably priced fabric” – hugs Jaskier, who makes a ‘oof’ sound.

“- dear Gods, do all children grow like weeds or have you always been so tall?” And Dara laughs because Jaskier is still a few inches taller, because the last thing anyone gave him was Ciri giving him her glove, and because his life has changed so much in such a short space of time.

He sniffs slightly into Jaskier’s shoulder and pulls back, wiping his eyes and straightening the front of his new doublet.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I – I don’t know really. Feels right. Like I was meant to teach you. Talking of -” and he pulled a new set of lute strings from his bag, “- let’s see how you get on re-stringing her.”

~

Over the coming week Dara does try writing out his ideas. He even tries sounding out his ideas, when Jaskier is taking a bath or ‘talking’ – as he calls it, like Dara is a baby – to a barmaid or the silversmith’s assistant. Once Jaskier returns earlier than expected and tells him he has a good-if-untrained voice. Jaskier adds breathing exercises to their daily lessons and gets Dara to copy him when he’s practicing in their room.

Touring the city with Jaskier is an education, in itself. He has Opinions on everything from soap – Dara never knew there were so many scents or uses – to the feathers used in quill making and millinery. The first time he had a ‘Jaskier experience’ bath, following Jaskier’s instructions to the letter as to shampoo and soap levels as the man himself mended Dara’s new, second hand, chemises behind the screen, he almost fell asleep in the warm-ish water. Dara might get opinions on baths himself if he wasn’t careful.

On their last night in Maribor, or rather the morning of over a breakfast of porridge, Jaskier asks him if he wants to try singing a song this evening.

“You _are_ ready. And it doesn’t have to be a difficult one, the one we’ve been practicing, and I’ll warm them up for you, don’t worry. I’ll be right there.”

The evening dawns. Jaskier gave him a quick pep talk. Dara feels slightly sick, tugging his new hat down even tighter. He’s not ready. He’s only been learning about 3 months in total.

“-Now this next song will be sung by my apprentice,” he gestured with a flourishing, purple silked, arm, “Be gentle friends, you are his first audience.”

Jaskier meets his eyes as Dara takes the lute with shaking hands. He mouths, “you’ve got this” and leans against the bar where Dara could see him.

Dara takes a deep breath and smiles like Jaskier taught him, “Hi. This song us called The Rose of Poviss.”

It’s an easy song to play with clever lyrics, a ballad everyone should have least heard of, even if they didn’t know the lyrics. It hadn’t been written by Jaskier but it had been one of the first songs the bard himself had learned on the lute. It was a song about a young Knight experiencing the first pangs of unrequited love as he traversed the continent.

He was minutely aware of every eye on him as he sang, a sweat sticking to the small of his back. A blush on his cheeks.

But the applause when he was done! He knew Jaskier was leading it but all the same…

Someone even cheered! He grinned and gratefully surrendered the lute to Jaskier as he was clapped on the back and his hat was carefully ruffled.

“Sooo… how did it feel?” Jaskier asked when they claimed their dinner and the crowd dispersed.

“Good. Good,” anxiety inducing but now he felt like he could walk on air, “Really good! That was the best I – The. Best!”

“Here,” Jaskier said, and split his tips into 4 equal piles of coin before pushing 1 pile towards Dara, “Well earned, I think.”

“No, it’s-”

“No nono no. No. Keep it. I insist.”

So, Dara wrapped his pay in his old hat. Just in case.

~

They’re in a damp wood, near the end of spring, when Dara gets up the courage to tell Jaskier.

“I’ve written a song.”

“Really?” Jaskier asks, interested as Dara sits down next to him.

“It’s not ready yet, but I’ve written 3 pages.”

Jaskier peers at the notebook Dara isn’t quite holding out to him.

“Can I?” and Dara lets him because there’s no way he’ll be able to read it. Most of it’s in Elder, he never got the hang of writing in common and besides it was just for him.

“It’s good,” Jaskier says, “You can feel the passion in it -” it’s about the uprising, “- and the metaphors are beautiful, heart-breaking…” his voice is slightly thick with emotion, he’s tracing a few lines with his index finger.

“You – you can read Elder?”

“Yes. I was taught until I was 7 then when I was at Oxenfurt I tried to learn again. I’m not fluent by any means but …” he shrugs.

Dara doesn’t know what to think. It is true that some scholars know Elder, and mages of course. But Jaskier was taught as _a child_?

At Dara’s questioning glance Jaskier seems to go through a mental journey, deciding something…

“My father tried to have it beaten out of me, then the tutors at temple school did it for him,” he says it conversationally enough but with a slight edge, “When I was 7 I was brought in front of him for the first time – his wife of 10 years had failed to give him a child. He walked around me, looked me in the eye and told his guard Captain ‘They have to go-‘” and he folds down the tip of his ear to reveal a jaggedly scar rounding it off.

“For years I thought my mother left but now I realise he probably had her killed,” he shrugged, sadly. “Your song, it reminded me of her.”

“I wrote it about my parents,” Dara confesses.

They sit silently a moment, then, “Have you any idea of a melody?”

~

‘Jaskier’, it turns out, was the nickname his mother gave him as a child. Officially he was a minor noble from Northern Redania. Viscount de Lettenhove. His father had been a Count and Jaskier had been his heir – despite being the bastard he was. However, when the Count had died, it had been decided, in Jaskier’s prolonged and conspicuous absence, that his sister, the daughter of Jaskier’s father and his second wife, would be more suitable. Anita was doing a smashing job as a Countess, last Jaskier heard.

Dara in turn tells Jaskier about his mother and father. His father, who had hugged him so tightly when he’d last seen him, who had ruffled his hair, kissed his forehead, and told him he loved him.Jaskier had put his arm around his shoulders and let Dara just cry quietly.

Dara must fall asleep because he next hears a lullaby being hummed. It’s the same one his mother used to sing him to sleep with.

~

The next Inn Jaskier lets him play 2 songs – covers, his own aren’t ready yet – and he gets a round of applause again which makes him grin from ear to ear. Jaskier performs as usual – still not performing any of his Witcher related songs as a security precaution – and after they split the pay again. Dara hides his quarter in his newly acquired pack.

He bought a new knife with his newly acquired funds. For protection and making quills from feathers. He keeps it in his new boots – Jaskier had lamented his favourite shoemakers had gone up in smoke with Cintra; there he could get boots that were both fashionable _and_ practical – which were light but warm.

Life isn’t suddenly rags-to-riches but he has a job now, and a wage of sorts. He still sleeps outside half the nights but with Jaskier it’s almost like having a family. Like having a father again. Or an eccentric uncle.

The smooth sailing couldn’t last, Nilfgaard were still after the ‘Witcher’s Bard’ – the irony of Dara now travelling with the man acquainted with Ciri’s Witcher is not lost on him. (Dara had awkwardly admitted to Jaskier he had met Ciri and abandoned her. Jaskier had nodded and, after a deep breath, explained about travelling with Geralt and filled in the gaps not-Mousesack had left out. Like Princess Pavetta turning a ballroom into a whirlwind.)

It posed a pseudo-philosophical question – Jaskier’s mannerisms are catching – is he safer _with_ the Princess or only with people who _might_ know where she is? Option 1 means he’s more likely to be killed outright in a struggle as collateral. Option 2 means he might be tortured for information.

Neither of those options end up _happening_ , of course. Jaskier, it turns out, is good at listening out for potential danger and he’s equally as good at escaping through upper story windows – a skill he quickly teaches Dara but makes him promise he won’t put this skill and “put it into practical use, _other_ practical use, until he’s _at least 35_. Do as I say not as I do, I’m not ready to be a grandfather…”. He’s teasing of course, allaying the very real fear that Nilfgaardian scouts are searching all the inns and taverns but still it warms Dara’s heart that Jaskier maybe thinks of him as family too.

They make it out of town okay and drastically change their route. They will _not_ be going to Oxenfurt after such a close call.

Instead they head towards an early summer bardic festival just outside Vizima where it hopefully will be easier to blend in with other bards. This is the event of the summer, bards hidden all winter, composing in courts and testing out their material through spring, now emerging to establish themselves against their peers. Also it’s more practical than just a bunch of bards getting drunk and outperforming each other, there’s generally a discussion of routes everyone is taking so they can avoid each other for the rest of the year.

Dara performs twice as part of Jaskier’s set and is entered into the ‘Novice’ category under his own merit. He’s so nervous he nearly pukes before he goes on. He debuts his song, the one about his family, and his new one, one he’s written about Brokilon. He comes 3rd and Jaskier is ecstatic because for someone who’s only been learning for a few months, it’s just over 6 months now, that is really, really, good! Jaskier spins him around so quickly his hat nearly falls off.

And there aren’t just humans either. There aren’t many elves, granted, so Dara keeps his hat on just in case, but there are several dwarfs he chats to after the competition. Jaskier keeps telling him to look out for a potential rival but he doesn’t think Glod or Cheery will fit the bill, they’re more friend shaped.

On the 5th night of being here, Jaskier presents him with 2 things, well 3 things, really, if you count Dara’s: “First proper glass of the best wine this side of Toussaint”.

They’re in one of the Inn’s at the edge of town. Dinner had been, honestly, the best fish and potato pie Dara has ever had. Jaskier himself is slightly pink after 2 glasses of wine when he hands Dara the 2nd thing.

It’s a letter, addressed from the Chancellor of Oxenfurt University officially apprenticing Dara to “Professor Julian A. Pankratz, Master of the Liberal Arts, the bard ‘Jaskier’”.

“When all this dies down,” Jaskier says, “We can even, if you want, enrol you for proper lessons? Oxenfurt is an exceptionally good University, and in recent years it’s become quite cosmopolitan.”

Dara honestly doesn’t know how he feels about that, he quite likes it how it is right now, he doesn’t know how he’d be in a classroom after such a long time.

He’s quickly sidetracked by the 3rd thing. Jaskier had been carrying a new, second hand but well repaired, lute case around all afternoon. Dara had thought he was finally replacing his old case which was also well loved and neatly repaired.

But no.

“Is this… for me?” Dara askes unsurely as he gingerly takes the lute out of it’s case. It looks _new_ even if the case is a little shabby.

“Of course! Can’t be a bard without one. And don’t go looking guilty! In 100 years’ time, when we’re vying for best bard on the continent, you can buy me a pint or -”

Dara interrupts him, “Thank you,” his voice cracks a little.

“Ah, it was nothing,” Jaskier says, looking slightly embarrassed, “I had some savings and, well, who else am I to spend it on?” He gestures at Dara.

“No, I mean, Thank you for everything. You didn’t have to do any of it, any of this.” He tries a few of the strings. Beautiful.

“No, I. No, I didn’t. But I felt I was meant to. This feels like,” he laughs a little self depreciatingly, “Destiny.”

Dara sniffs. Jaskier sniffs too, then:

“There’s a reason the case is a bit -” he pulls a face, “- detracts bandits. Bandits can steal anything off a bard. Money, clothes, jewellery… but if they get your lute, you’re fucked, dear boy.”

“Right,” Dara says, laughing and nodding, taking a gulp of wine. Then he hiccups and Jaskier laughs as Dara tries to drink from the opposite side of his glass.

~

The festival goes on another week. Staying in separate rooms for once which is a relief - they’re both getting cabin fever and this way Jaskier can flirt and kiss whomever he wants to his hearts content in complete privacy.

So generally, Dara leaves Jaskier at the bar in the small hours of the morning, generally going to bed early. (The first few times he tried staying up late, to Jaskier’s not-exactly-disapproval-but wasn’t-sure-if-he-had-the-place-to-say-it-was-inadvisable look, he’d woken very groggily the next morning). He does stay up for the first few performances, sitting with his new friends in the bar, trying to see if any of them can get the barkeep to serve them anything stronger than apple juice, or playing knuckle bones and dice (even Jaskier, laid-back guardian he may be, makes Dara promise not to bet money).

Tonight, he’d stayed up specifically to see Cheery’s uncle perform. Uncle Rhys had given Dara a few gwent cards, so he could start his own deck, so Dara felt he should stay up to watch out of gratitude. The performance is over now, and the floorboards are sticky with newly spilled mead from the dancing. (Dara had been pulled into a jig by a troubaritz from Kovir, which had brought a blush to his cheeks). Dara’s just heading up to let Jaskier know he’s heading up to bed.

Jaskier is in the bar upstairs, which serves fancier drinks and allows for conversation away from the loud downstairs stage. Dara finds him amidst full eloquent flow, arguing – sparring would be a better word – with a man which coiffed black hair and a goatee.

“-flattering? You prick me underarm and reveal mine flesh – underhand (!) I’d take slander against my person over desperate commentary on metaphor -” Jaskier scoffs, clearly this man has made a comment about one of Jaskier’s compositions.

“ _Derivative_ , it’s cliché,” drawls the man, rolling his eyes.

“Says the man whose metaphors are so obscure even the gods can’t reach the lofty heights by which to understand them,” Jaskier gestured expansively.

“Thank you for the compliment,” the man, whom Dara suspects might be Valdo Marx if the discourse was anything to go by, gives a short bow.

“Only you, you sanctimonious pri- hello Dara, enjoy the performance? It sounded good from up here.”

“ _If_ you like -” Valdo cut in only to be cut off by Jaskier kicking him on the shin to dramatic but silencing outrage.

“Yeah, it was good! And I won a weather card in knucklebones.”

“Yeah? Brilliant,” Jaskier smiled, “We’ll have to have a game sometime. I’ve got some loose cards somewhere. Though I may have given Geralt – well.” He sips his drink.

“I’m off to bed. See you tomorrow. Uh, what time are we setting off?” Jaskier isn’t the best in the mornings _sober,_ whilst hungover he would be slow to say the least.

“Uh, oh bollocks, _early_. This’ll be my last glass then,” Jaskier stares mournfully at his cocktail before draining it. Dara tries not to laugh, Jaskier’s forgotten his ‘no swearing around Dara’ oath.

“And who’s _this_ Julian? Since when do you have _elven_ children following you around?” Valdo scoffs, he’s found his voice and it’s derogatory, derisive, and drunken.

Dara hugs himself, his nails digging into his palms, without realising it. Sinking into himself slightly.

Jaskier notices and stands, “He’s my son so, so go fuck yourself Valdo. And he already plays better than you.” And they leave Valdo looking bitter and sour.

Jaskier puts a hand on Dara’s shoulder and steers him towards where they are staying, he’s also using the same hand to balance himself – more drunk then either of them realised.

“Oh my head is going to hurt tomorrow,” Jaskier laments, “Now! A good night’s sleep is the responsible thing to do. So you lay down and sleep and so, so will I -”

Dara’s brain’s still stuttering over what Jaskier called him.

“- Dara?”

“Hm?”

“Sleep tight, I said.”

“Yeah. Sleep tight, you too,” and he smiles a watery smile as Jaskier pats him on the shoulder and manages to open his own room door.

Son. Sure he’d been drunk and it had been said to _Valdo Marx_ but …

Dara cries himself to sleep in a weird mix of grief-stricken and happy tears.

~

The next morning indeed dawned early for Dara and Jaskier, though later than planned admittedly. Dara had just been contemplating banging on Jaskier’s door when the bard stumbled down to where Dara was finishing breakfast.

“All packed up?” Jaskier asked slipping into the seat next to Dara and blinking blearily into the bread roll on his plate.

Dara patted his bag on the bench next to him and continued to pick at his apple core.

Jaskier picked at his roll and drank his ale slowly. Perking up slightly every minute.

It gave Dara the opportunity to say goodbye to his friends as they too ate breakfast and departed, swapping addresses they’re most likely to spend next winter at and going over the festivals they might bump into each other over rest of the year.

Jaskier too said goodbye to various friends: hugging a girl named Essi snugly and spinning her around, kissing a woman named Priscilla – or Cantonella, Dara’s not sure – deeply and embracing her tightly, and shaking hands professionally with Valdo Marx before kissing him also. Valdo even apologised to Dara and complimented both his hat and playing sincerely.

There are others, half of whom Jaskier kisses goodbye before giving Dara a running a commentary on who’s who. By the time they leave, Dara’s been introduced to most of the bardic population of the North.

They finish breakfast, tip the barkeep, and then they’re back on the road.

~

Two months later they’re travelling on the back of a prop cart following a – is posse the word? – troupe of actors heading along the Ismena toward the Pontar so as to cross into Redania. They’re hoping to hit every town along the way.

The weather’s warming up. Dara hasn’t followed Jaskier’s example and unbuttoned his doublet to near indecent levels, but he has undone the top clasp.

Without thinking, he’s got so comfortable around Jaskier, he takes his hat off his head to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. He freezes.

The leading actor stares at him. Dara stares back before looking in his lap.

“- no no! It doesn’t make sense! If you change it so – thematically it must fit! This is a sequel? Well if I remember correctly Stefan spent the last 3 plays dedicating his life to -” Jaskier falters a second, taking in the atmosphere change, then he shuffles a little closer to Dara knocking their shoulders together, and continues, “ – you remember, Dara, Stefan spend his life in dedication to his bondsman, blood brother that he was, Jakub. Through every battle! Every sickness. It makes no sense for him to marry Greta. From what I’ve read -” he gestures with he script he’s borrowed from the company’s writer, “- she’s not even in this play. She was barely in the last two. Dara, do you remember the Fair Lady Greta in _The Blue Mountain Cavalier_ or _Armoured Betrayal_?”

“Uh,” Dara’s still very much aware of the eyes on him, “Was she the one lying cursed? In the Melitelian temple?” They’d caught the play, the Cavalier one -the second of a then-trilogy apparently - when they were at the festival, not performed by this Company but the Company of _someone-in-this-company’s_ cousin. It had been good. When Jakub, be-spelled by the enemy mage, had drawn his sword on Stefan, Dara had been on the edge of his seat. He’d copied down the words to the final speech – when Jakub had come back to himself to save Stefan’s life – in his notebook as soon as they’d got back to the Inn room.

“Yes. And in _Betrayal_ you killed her off!” Jaskier’s using the script to point at the Writer who’s looking furious. But it’s due to Jaskier’s artistic criticism not because Dara’s an elf

“Uh, maybe give him the script back?” Dara says, patting Jaskier on the arm. He can see this coming to physical blows.

“What? Oh right,” he gives it back, “Thematically it doesn’t make sense! You can’t always just introduce a new mage and a new prop maker – they are _very well_ made Apolinia – to cover up shitty writing.”

Apolinia looked like she very much agreed with Jaskier but also like she wanted to keep her job.

“What do you know, bard? You spent 20 years suc-” the Writer started before tempering his language for Dara’s ears, which warms his heart because that means the man doesn’t hate him, “- _cough,_ travelling with that Witcher? What do you know?”

“I know unrequited love, to start with! After the first play you could have set the groundwork for healthy polyamory but after making Greta a bit part you’ve lost all chemistry between her and Stefan. It makes no thematical sense to bring her back! Jakub however has been the primary -” the Writer scoffs and storms off the check on the horses.

Jaskier scowls at his back.

“I, uh, get what you’re saying,” the lead actor says, “But Arnold’s Uncle likes the Greta storyline and he’s the one with the money.”

“What happened to artistic integrity?” Jaskier said, under his breath to Dara.

Dara shrugged, sagely.

The lead actor laughed, “You’re a card, lad.” And he wandered off to relieve himself in the thicket of bushes that were falling behind them.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks, under his breath.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Dara wasn’t sure whether to put his hat back on. He was still coming down from his panic.

“Don’t worry. You know I’d do my all to protect you, right? I-” he swallows, “I may not be a sword-bedazzled Witcher with two gigantic swords but we’re practically family.” He nodded decisively but his eyes were prepared for rejection.

Dara nods, “One day I’m going to be the best bard on the continent.”

Jaskier grins.

“Atta boy!”

And he knocks their shoulders’ together again.

~

Destiny smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be part of a series, part 2 will be a collection of drabbles or oneshots within this verse. Part 2 will not update regularly as I have written 0 words for it. 
> 
> I named Dara's dwarven friends after dwarfs in Discworld because I have no imagination for that sort of thing.
> 
> (Also catch the Captain America references because I’m still salty about Endgame)
> 
> If you liked this, please kudos and comment, even if its just keysmashing or something.
> 
> Catch me on tumblr @whatkindofnameisvolta


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